witticism

The Kid House

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

A mother approached me the other day and asked, “What’s your best advice to parents?”

Wow? I wonder if she wants three hours of advice? Doubtful. “Hmm. That’s a most interesting question, and I have to think about it. When I have an answer, you’ll be the first to know.” For several days, I relived my memories of my daughters’ childhood. I was flooded with the highs, the middles, and the lows because certainly parenthood is fluid. Just when my former husband and I thought we had it figured out, an antic, an illness, or an action caused us to change direction. And if someone asked our children about our parenting, they’d probably have a variety of opinions.

However, I think the best thing we did as parents was to build a kid house–a house where kids were always welcomed…and supervised. Our daughters’ bedrooms were on the second floor; I referred to that arrangement as “out of sight, out of mind.” I didn’t care how messy their rooms and bathroom were. I didn’t fret about unmade beds, streaky mirrors, or dirty towels. Of course, I insisted they throw their dirty clothes downstairs to the laundry, and several times a week I’d go upstairs and tidy up the mess. I also made it clear that those rooms were not their sole property and therefore were subject to my scrutiny. Yes, on several occasions, I did find some questionable things, like a lighter, a pack of cigarettes, and an airplane-size bottle of vodka.

However, their bedrooms were off-limits to visitors of the opposite sex by the time they went to middle school. We enlarged a room off the family room/ kitchen replete with a TV, cd player, Nintendo, and lots of board games. Twenty years before it became a rage, we installed a pickleball court with a basketball hoop, and like almost every house in Phoenix, there was a swimming pool in our backyard. We built it, and they came! At least one night of most weekends. Given that we’d known most of their parents since they were in elementary school, our rules were clear: no smoking, no drinking, no making out, no being a jerk, or I’ll call you mom and have her come and get you.

Of course, I always made sure we had food and drinks on hand. But the kids were so comfortable here they didn’t hesitate to say, “Mama Skid, you’re almost out of fruit snacks.” Or, “Can you make two lasagnas next weekend? Joey ate a whole one tonight.”

When they all went off to college, they still congregated during the holidays at the kid house. But now, they’re all in their late thirties and early forties now, many of them are married, some of them have kids, and others have long since moved away. Yesterday, I went upstairs in search of something. I opened each bedroom door. Pristine. Beds tightly made. Everything order. I walked into the bathroom. Towels neatly displayed, clutterless counter top, sparkling clean mirror. Hmm. I closed the lid on the ivory toilet and sat. Then, a tear escaped. “Oh dear God, I miss the mess! I miss my kids! I miss a house full of their friends.”

So my best advice to you, my friend, is build a kid house. It doesn’t need a pool, nor a trampoline. It simply needs to be a place where kids can go, have fun, and feel safe. Where kids can express their opinions and are treated with respect. But–where kids have rules, expectations, and consequences for their behavior. Trust me, your kids and their friends will thank you for it.

The Twilight Zone of Censorship

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

Imagine if you will, an upscale, suburban school district embroiled in conflict over three books on a middle school suggested reading list. One: Narrative of the Life of Fredrick Douglass, An American Slave by Fredrick Douglass. Two: A Raisin in the Sun by Lorraine Hansberry. Three: Summer of the Mariposas by Guadalupe G. McCall. Oh, and the fourth. A picture book: On the Top of the World–Climbing Mount Everest by not reading sections about harm or death on Mount Everest. According to some members of its school board, these aforementioned selections violate instructional protocols for the prohibition of DEI (Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion.)

As a former high school and college English teacher, and as an adjunct professor in American Educational History, I am not a fan of banning books, unless they’re pornographic trash. Allow me to digress and make an analogy. I grew up in an ethnically-diverse city in a WASP (White Anglo Saxon Protestant) family, and by virtue of birth, qualified for membership in the DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution.) I was a monolingual, minority in a vast melting pot of Italians, Greeks, Czechoslovakians, Hungarians, and Irish, who could all converse with their grandparents in another language. Of course, there were Blacks and Hispanics too.

Our elementary school had no cafeteria; it was just a lunch room where everyone brought a lunch box and a thermos. And it was there that my eyes and my taste buds were forever changed! I tasted pizza, Mexican wedding cookies, strudel, kolachi, cabbage rolls, and wiener schnitzel. I ate baklava, pierogi, tacos, and chow mein. Foods that my mother certainly couldn’t cook; foods that my grandmothers found objectionable. As a college student, I worked at a resident Camp Fire Girls camp, where the Black cook taught me to barbeque chicken and ribs on a wood fire. I became such an expert my grandmother insisted I take over the Sunday menu when it called for barbeque. Indeed, I would have grown up with a limited, insular palate had it not been for my experience.

For politicians to force the removal of books and other educational materials from schools based on DEI is not only irresponsible, but ludicrous. In this high-tech age of information, do they not realize students can explore the world from their cell phone or laptop? Are they so naive to think they can rewrite history by just removing Douglass’ autobiography or mention of the Navajo Code Talkers from the history books? Since the current leadership is anti-science, do they think they can ignore and simply erase the harsh realities of scaling Mount Everest?

Your attempts to suppress history and ban Mark Twain, Harper Lee, J.D. Salinger, and Dr. Seuss are unconscionable and ignorant. Now, while you may deny and/or justify your motives as “protecting children,” that’s absurd. You know, without a doubt, who openly mocked a disabled American, who makes disparaging remarks to women news reporters, who has turned the White House into a gilded slum, and who’s in the Epstein Files. And it’s not Edmund Hillary. It’s The Twilight Zone!

MIA

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

Unlike Mitch was for 50 days, I have not been missing in action and have a full cadre of witnesses to attest I’m ambulatory and cognizant. Admittedly, I am missing a few parts, like a foot of intestine, an inch of my height, and the true color of my hair. But earlier this week, I found out I was missing something else: collagen!

Duh. I need only to look in the mirror at my wrinkles and wonder who that old gal is staring back. In this case, though, it had a new twist, when I went for my appointment–at the tattoo parlor. “You must be Sue; you have an appointment at noon. Did you bring a picture of what you want done?”

I handed him a copy. “I want it done here,” I said, as I pointed to my upper arm.

He took my arm and gently rubbed it. “Hmm. You know at your age you lack collagen, so the tattoo ink might seep. You see how your other tattoo is blurry? That’s because the dermis becomes thin and loses its structure. The ink particles tend to move around or migrate.”

WTH? Migrating ink in my dermis?

“So I want you to understand your tattoo may not be as vivid and vibrant because of your age.”

Oh, ye gods, a twenty+ year-old, heavily-inked dude with a pierced nose is talking to me like he is a physician and like I am a child. “I understand; let’s do it.”

Thirty minutes later, I walked out of the parlor, sporting my 8th tat. Quite frankly, I don’t care if my new addition blurs or goes south for the winter with the Monarch butterflies. I had to get this done and am very glad I opted out of my 60th-year high school reunion yesterday. I would have been embarrassed for my classmates to see that I’d lost my collagen!

OUR Kids

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

Last week, I turned two years short of eighty, which surprised me and a number of my friends! But a long time ago, I realized what’s important–and it’s not me. It’s not my children or your children; it’s OUR children. They are OUR future.

Contrary to the opinions of notable, public figures, I don’t care about whether children are black, brown, red, white, or blue. What I do care about is that they each get an equal shot at success. Thus, every July, my back-to-school supply drive for Title I public schools.

Unfortunately, our country’s leadership seems less interested in insuring our future and more interested in gilded statues of horses and their own personal bank accounts. Cases in point: funding private education at the expense of public education; reducing medical science to ridiculous, unproven nonsense that has led to an unprecedented outbreak of measles; eliminating the Drug, Part D plan which not only assists the elderly, but also the poor; and frivolous spending on never-ending, pissing contests which result in devastating budget cuts to domestic programs, not only in education, but also in research, land management, forestry, and environmental issues.

In the 1950’s, my family and I stood in line to suck a polio-vaccine-laden sugar cube in our mouths. Curiously, no one suggested that the government was inserting some voodoo device into our systems; we just knew we didn’t want to end up in an iron lung! (Even MIA Mitch wasn’t spared a debilitating after effect of the disease.) Thus, the week I was enraged by the ludicrous, six-year’s later investigation of Dr. Fauci and COVID protocols. In 2020, I was a school board member in a large, suburban district of over 30,000 students. Our entire board did not question social distancing, mask policies, or vaccinations; we acted in the best interest of children, of scientific recommendations. Yes, we did save lives of some of our fragile students. And please don’t forget that 45 spent a few days in Walter Reed Hospital taking experimental drugs to cure his COVID.

We can NO longer minimize nor disregard the importance of our most precious resource. If we lose sight of our children, if we fail to feed, educate, and protect them, who will take care of us, of our country, of our planet? Do WE care?

Looking for You

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

“Sue, I’m frustrated. I can’t figure out what I want to do with my life.”

“Janey, I’m soon to be 78 years old and don’t want to know what I want to be when I grow up.”

“You? You’ve already self-actualized. You’ve done this, and this, and that. Me? What have I done? What can I do to leave my legacy?”

“What is it that you want to do?” I asked.

Jane sighed, “I don’t know. I need you to help me. I did the Mom duty, and I did the executive assistant job in my husband’s office, but things are different now. Our kids are grown, my husband is winding down his business, and all I do is read and waste my time.”

I smiled. I, too, had experienced this sense of uselessness, like I was stealing food and water from folks in need. “First, this English teacher has never considered reading as a waste of time. Now with that said, there is a vast number of organizations who need you. You just have to decide what you want to do.”

“I’m 65! What do I have to offer?”

I stifled my laugh, “Your gift of time, Janey. What you don’t realize is this world is not the world in which we grew up with the stay-at-home-parent who was the homeroom mother, the Girl Scout leader, the softball coach, the field trip chaperone. The public schools don’t have the financial resources to pay for one-on-one tutors and youth organizations are dying for lack of leaders.”

“I hate to sign up for something and then find I don’t like it. I’d be letting people down.”

“By your own admission, you want to do something. There are a myriad of opportunities for volnteers.

The only thing missing is: U.”

I Choose You

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

In April, 2024, a friend and her nine-month-old puppy, Orion, moved into the casita on my property. Orion quickly assimilated into my pack of five, but certainly preferred his “Mom” over me. When the election results of November 2024 were posted, I was incredulous. My disbelief festered. I didn’t want a psychiatrist, nor a pill. I needed a puppy to rid me of my angst. So I chose:

R. Bader G., and she liked both the pack and me for a while. But over time, she gradually gravitated to my friend, G. What was at first an occasional sleepover in G’s casita bloomed into full-time residency. Eventually, Orion had had enough of sharing attention, and he decided to bunk in with me. Needless to say, I was slightly miffed, until I realized I couldn’t force her choice. Perhaps, that’s a lesson our legislators should learn.

66-26

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

Before you crazed, conspiracy theorists get your knickers in a knot, my blog is neither an elementary schoolyard chant, nor a death threat. It’s about high school graduation–you know it’s that time of year when hopefully, most teens manage to earn a diploma. Somehow I did in 1966. Sixty years ago!

Sixty years ago we had: rotary-dial phones that plugged into the wall, transistor radios, and black and white TV’s. We knew how to read our analog watches, return soda bottles to the grocery, load film in our cameras, and use a map if we were lost. We learned to type on a manual typewriter, calculate with a slide rule, and use the card catalog, encyclopedias, and dictionaries. The vast majority of our parents kept us under watchful eye. We were expected to be polite and respectful. We were expected to go to church. And if we got in trouble at school, our parents rarely debated our innocence.

And while I was elated to graduate in 1966, my guy friends faced the uncertainty of being drafted and sent to Vietnam. Food prices soared sparking protests and picket lines around grocery stores. Little did we know that our thriving city would die a slow, painful death eight years later when all of the steel mills closed. Thankfully, NO member of our 400+ class is on the Vietnam War Memorial. Thankfully, over half of us are still alive and struggling through health problems, operating our frustrating high-tech devices, and bragging about our kids and grandchildren.

Even though I’m old, I have great faith in the future. Just as I was sixty years ago, 2026 graduates are faced with uncertain times, rising prices, war, and serious socio-economic and environmental issues. But please know the majority of we oldsters are rooting for you to confront and confound these issues and to champion peace. Congratulations.

Assassination of the Professional

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

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.

The (Dog)astrophe

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

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.”

The Neighborhood Dive Bar

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

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!